I once saw Etta James sing. She opened the concert with “At Last,” sang for two hours, then closed the concert with “At Last.” Both times were amazing. She was that good. RIP Jamesetta.
Watch the NYC Subway Unfold
The map is laid out according to the order the subway lines were built. Beautiful.
Via.
Wait forever for the G train to appear, as always.
I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to be doing.
I can’t think of anything but lists I’ve made, lists I’ve broken
the spirit of. It’s always a fine time for breaking
things, like plastic forks and poetic trends.
It’s a damn good morning to imitate the world.
But I can’t remember what imitation is
or the difference between it and flattery
or an adage and an aphorism.
—from “Untitled” by Anna Moschovakis in I Have Not Been Able to Get Through to Everyone
Thanks, Will Hermes, for showing me that before it was “Rosalita,” it was “Henry Boy.”
And Henry couldn’t take it
He’s gonna be a submariner
Riding underground for the pope
Gonna stand on the corner of Broadway
And scream: “up scope!”
Editorial / Classic
I have to shut my eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m disoriented.’
‘Story of my life,’ she says. When I open my eyes, she’s vaulting over a line of bushes on the other side of the park. I think, good. The world needs tougher religious artifacts. Everything you find on Sunday morning is too delicate. Candles burning over white linen. Transferring the wine from vessel to vessel, chasuble sleeves hanging perilously close. You can buy all this stuff from a catalog, but it’s expensive. Sometimes, it comes blessed.
The fountain is very close to my home and at my home’s heart is my medicine cabinet. Something feels very strange about the container of my body. As I was getting up, the corn disk hardened into a circular saw blade and went to work on the flesh of my organs. It consumes and spins faster and threatens my spinal cord. My brain howls in protest. I want darkness and my bed and the calming mechanism of a great deal of medication.
My brain says, careful what you wish for!
James Moody starts killin’ it at :35.
The emotions are engaged
Entering the city
As entering any city.
We are not coeval
With a locality
But we imagine others are,
We encounter them. Actually
A populace flows
Thru the city.
This is a language, therefore, of New York
—George Oppen, Section 3 of “Of Being Numerous”
